


Part I: The Reunion

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon, Attempted Murder, Chronic Illness, F/M, Gen, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What if?" two little words that could tangle the threads of fate in an instant.  After losing Rukia to the harsh streets of Inuzuri, Hisana Kuchiki finally finds her sister--with the help of her beloved husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part I: The Reunion

 

* * *

**Part I: In the Beginning**

_With plum blossom scent,_

_This sudden sun emerges_

_Along a mountain trail_

_–Matsuo Basho_

* * *

**The Reunion**

Wistfully, she stares through the rectangular opening in the door.  The garden is abloom—vibrantly colored blossoms adorn the branches and shrubs.  Even the diverted stream looks festive.  Inhaling deeply, the fragrance of a thousand flowers swells in her chest and eases her mind.  She holds her breath tightly in her chest until she feels like she is strangling.  Her heart barely beats.  Her eyes barely focus.  The feeling swirling inside her is surreal.

Years, long and hard, she has waited for this exact moment.  She has dreamed of it.  Wished for it.  Pled for it.  She has fallen on bended knee, and, with head hung low and cheeks wet with the remnants of a thousand tears, she has prayed for this day, this event, to come to fruition. 

She closes her eyes, and her hands catch in the silks of her kimono.  Fingers curl against the soft fabric, creating folds and wrinkles in the robes that fall down her legs. With as much poise and restraint as her heart will allow, she lifts her head and exhales slowly.

She can wait a moment longer, she tells herself despite feeling as if she will burst into a thousand tiny pieces. 

 _Just another moment_.

. . . .

“I have informed the Lady,” a creaky voice cracks and hisses as it breaks over the room.

Byakuya Kuchiki stands calmly before his steward.  Nodding his approval, the steward bows low before scurrying back into the darkness that lingers near the door. The clack of wood kissing wood tells him that he is now alone. 

Alone, he has only his thoughts and a letter crumpled in his hand to keep him company.  Again, he glances down at the thick paper.  Hastily made brush strokes form the words—words he knows now by heart.  He has read the missive at least a thousand times over, still trying to convince himself that this is _real_. 

It does not _feel_ real.  Not in the least. 

Only a year ago, he was nearly set to mourn his wife.  She was terminal, or so he had been told.  He had been told a great many things that year, most of which had been well-crafted artifice. 

 _Lies_ , his inner pragmatist corrected.

Indeed, the words that fell from the lips of several trusted advisors and relatives were nothing more than self-serving mendacities and _worse_.  Yes, dark and wretched were the machinations that plagued his house merely a year ago.  His relatives had written their debts in blood, and, once learned, he paid these debts in blood.  Debts that his family _would not soon forget_.

“Rukia,” he murmurs, studying the ink and the penmanship, both of which are poor quality.

He stuffs the letter in a pocket, and he crosses the floor.  Quiet and deliberate are his footfalls and his intentions as he moves through dimly lit corridors.  He traces the path to where he knows his wife will be waiting.

Part of him regrets not breaking the news himself.  He imagines that she was stunned but happy upon learning the whereabouts of her sister. He imagines that she smiled then. 

How long has it been since he last saw a genuine smile bend her lips? he wonders. 

 _A while_. 

_A very long while._

Noiselessly, his fingertips brush against the cool wood of her door, and he slides it back.  Just as he suspects, she stands staring out into the garden, with her back facing him.  Her lines are soft and illuminated in the warm rays of afternoon.  A golden halo lights the contours of her form.  She is diminutive and shrunken from the year of devastating illness, but she has improved.  It is slow, but she is transforming every day into the woman that he married six years ago. 

She stirs, but she does not turn to face him.  No, she waits for _him_ to announce his presence as is proper.  But, he can tell that she is restraining herself.  She trembles slightly—a sure sign that she is locking every muscle in place until he breaks the silence.

“It is time,” he says at length.

In a graceful movement, she steps slightly to the side, just enough to glimpse him.  She smiles joyously, triumphantly.  Words cannot describe her happiness at the news or his at seeing the burden dissipate from her eyes.

“Yes, Lord Byakuya,” she murmurs, lowering her head suppliantly.  The words that she does not utter (but ones he feels all the same) linger between them, thick and potent.

 _Thank you for everything_. 

. . . .

Rukia bites her lip, and she rolls back her head.  Her brain goes numb from the words, ever increasing, that sprawl across the chalkboard in that tiny classroom.  Her gaze floats between the instructor, an old wizened man who creaks when he moves and who drones on and on about… _something_ , and the window, which is cracked enough to allow in the spring’s fragrant breeze.

She would give _anything_ to be _somewhere_ else, and, as she gazes wistfully out the window, she imagines strolling through the marketplace.  The weather is so mild and inviting, and the trees are all flowering.  Such a vibrant display of pinks, purples, and whites beckon her, and her soul beckons back in reply.

 _How unfair_ , she groans inwardly.   It is especially unfair since her errant _friend_ is likely frolicking _outside_ and _doing_ things.  Important things, no doubt.  Interesting things, too! 

Reflexively, she narrows her eyes.  _Idiot,_ she fumes, albeit _fondly_.  Despite all the grief that she metes out to him, she is pleased that he is doing so well and is accomplishing so much.  Maybe, just maybe, if he has a spare moment later in the day, he will regale her with stories of his classes, assignments, and conquests.  And, maybe, just maybe, if she is lucky, she can convince him to do this rejoicing under the weeping cherry blossom tree that tempts her from outside the window.

She smiles briefly at the thought. 

“Rukia!”

She springs back in her seat.  Her eyes widen to the size of saucers and her breath stops short in her throat.  She almost chokes on her own mortification. 

Does the instructor even _know_ her name?

She is certain that she has never offered a single answer to a single question or attempted to raise a single inquiry all year. She has never volunteered for extraneous activities.  She has never _spoken_ to the instructor outside of class or during his office hours.

Was she in some sort of trouble? 

She seemingly wanders in and out of the good graces of others for no rational reason.  The intricate and random web of laws, protocols, and etiquette that binds _nobles_ constantly beguiles _her_.  It is as if all her years spent in Inuzuri have irrevocably corrupted her ability to function socially.  She lacks the shared community and history of her contemporaries.  _Her_ experiences are alien and repulsive to them.  Yet, it is all she has from which to draw, and, each time she leans against her past foundation, it proves unstable, and she garners nothing but harsh words, angry stares, and painful rebukes.  Perhaps this was just another one of _those_ instances? 

“Rukia, go now to the welcoming vestibule!  You have a guest,” the instructor commands her while waving a notice in the air.

She stares at him, nonplussed.  _A guest?_ she questions.  She only knows one other soul and that is _Renji_.  Renji would never dare to call her out of class, and he _certainly_ wouldn’t be considered a “guest.”

“Go, now!” the instructor growls.  His gaze sharpens as she stares back at him, dumbfounded.

Blinking back her surprise, Rukia nods her head.  “Yes, sir!” she stammers breathlessly before jumping to her feet.  She remembers to bow low, and she rushes toward the door.  She is sure she hears the class erupt into a chorus of snickering as she crosses the threshold, but everything becomes a blur as soon as she hits the hallway. 

 _Guest_?  The word burns itself into her brain.  _Who gets a guest at the Academy?_  

Nobles, that’s who. 

A wrinkle forms between her brows at the realization.  But, she’s _not a noble_.  She doesn’t know any nobles that aren’t students, either.  Her lips slope into a frown as she considers other options.

 _Maybe they are finally expelling me?  Maybe they have figured out that I am an imposter.  Found out that my test results were false positives.  Now, they are sending me back to Inuzuri, or worse!_   The flurry of thoughts assails her mind, needling her with each step as she traverses the winding corridors. 

With her heart beating feverishly in her throat, she enters the large capacious vestibule.  The light is low cast and cool.  Blues and blacks fill the space, lengthen the shadows, and veil the senses, giving her a false sense of calm.  It takes her a moment to realize that the small assembly of people gathered in the middle of the room waits for _her_.      

“Rukia?” A tremulous feminine voice grabs her attention. 

Immediately, Rukia’s eyes track the sound to find a woman.  Everything goes blurry for a moment, as if her blood pressure has plummeted to insalubrious levels.  For a moment, she wobbles, and her heart becomes all hard stops and hesitant starts inside her chest.

 _It is impossible_ , she tells herself.  Utterly impossible.  Yet, when her vision clears, it is the truth, bright and unwavering.  The resemblance is uncanny.  The woman, who stands before her, could be her doppelganger.  Her slightly older mirror image. They look so alike that it haunts her.

Stunned, she takes a step back.  Her nerves shoot electric currents under her skin, and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach.  Nothing makes sense.  It is all so sudden, so unexpected, that she can hardly process anything.  Instead, she stands dumbstruck.  Not a trace of her newly acquired etiquette softens her countenance.  No, she dons the patented slack jaw expression of horror inherited from Inuzuri.

Her lips tremble as her mind sorts through her panic.  Words, hot and sharp, flicker across her tongue, but they are fleeting, beating in her mouth like the wings of a butterfly.  “Y-ye-yes?” Rukia quavers.  

The woman’s large probing eyes meet hers, and their gazes lock.  The woman takes a small step forward.  She offers Rukia an assuaging smile, and tears well in her eyes.  “I am your sister.”

. . . .

 _I passed!_   Renji sits staring at the mark on the thin piece of paper.  His eyes go large, and he fights back the urge to smile.  Maybe he just isn’t interpreting the results properly?  He was lucky the first time.  But twice? 

He blinks back the implications. 

 _I really passed?_   He fixes the evidence with an unwavering look.  His eyes scrutinize each mistake, but there are few.  So few that it strikes him as _strange_. 

He draws in a shaky breath.  Not only did he _pass_ , he did _well_.  A warm contented bubble rises in his chest, and, before he has the chance to suppress his excitement, he bolts out of the room. 

Long strong strides make quick use of the burnished hardwood floors.  “Rukia!” he calls down the corridor, feeling her presence lingering in the welcoming vestibule.  “Check it out!  I passed the second exam!” he calls jubilantly.  Half of his words slur together, rendering his sentiments largely incomprehensible to anyone but Rukia, who is an expert at parsing his meaning from his thick Rukongai drawl.  “If I pass the next one,” he begins as he hurriedly draws back the door.  His lips are ready to complete his thoughts, but his heart slams against his chest, cold and hard.

There is so much.  So suddenly.  So unexpectedly. 

He doesn’t know where to begin, where to look, what to say, or what to do. 

Four men form a semicircle around Rukia, who is being held tightly in the arms of a woman—a woman, who Renji initially mistakes _as_ Rukia. 

The breath escapes his chest and flees from his lips in a small sharp gasp.  What is happening?  Has he stepped into some strange illusion?  Who is this woman, and why does she look like Rukia?  Who are these strange men?

Renji blinks again, hopeful that maybe he is just seeing _double_. 

He is _not_ seeing double. 

His throat parches.  His eyes widen.  The burning flicker of muscle strain tells him that he is clenching everything to prevent him from saying or doing something gauche. 

One of the males lifts his head.  It is the one standing closest to Rukia.  The movement pulls Renji’s gaze, and Renji gives him a wide-eyed onceover.   

 _Kenseikan_ , Renji thinks to himself as he observes the hair ornament first.  He vaguely recognizes it from somewhere.  Was it Kira or Momo who told him that Kenseikan signal high nobility? 

 _He is noble_.

In fact, as Renji considers the configuration more closely, he realizes the men are not surrounding Rukia so much as they are _protecting_ the noble.  Two of the males are bodyguards, and the elderly male, who stands hunched over behind the noble, is likely an attendant. 

So, by process of elimination, the woman, holding Rukia, must be some relation to the nobleman relative.  A wife?  A sister?  A far-flung cousin? 

Tearfully, Rukia lifts her head and turns to give Renji a sidelong glance.  The dim overhead light shimmers against her moist tear-tracked cheeks.  She has been crying for a while, but she does not seem _distraught_ like she would if the news was _devastatingly bad_.

Rukia’s shifting draws the woman’s gaze up and across the room to Renji.  The woman’s eyes focus on Renji, and she studies him intently. 

He tenses.  It is surreal how closely she resembles Rukia.  They look like siblings. 

“Oh,” the attendant states in a low gravel, “It seems that this is not the place to talk.”

The woman straightens her posture.  Her shoulders level, and her chest rises.  Tenderly, she clasps Rukia’s small shoulders in her hands, and she smiles somberly at Rukia.  There is a gravity in the woman’s stare—a  gravity that resonates with Renji even if he does not understand its meaning. 

The woman then turns her attention to Renji.  She regards him with a soft gaze.  “A friend?” her voice is thin as if she is forcing it up an inflamed throat.  Her eyes then drift to Rukia.

Rukia nods and manages a broken smile. 

“From Inuzuri?”

Clearly, she heard his excited utterances before he burst into the room and trampled whatever moment was transpiring.  Was his dialect that strong? he wonders to himself.

“Since childhood,” Rukia responds, staring weepy-eyed into the woman’s face.

The woman takes a few small steps in his direction, and she bows.  “My gratitude, sir,” she says, holding the bow a moment longer than necessary for a woman of her rank.  “Thank you.  I hope you remain friends.”

“We will take our leave,” the attendant informs Rukia.

Renji does not see the initial look or movement, but he assumes the nobleman has indicated his readiness to depart the Academy.  With a small nod, the nobleman fixes the woman with a look.  She replies in kind.

“Yes,” she murmurs, turning to Rukia. 

The nobleman crosses the floor, and, as he approaches Renji’s position, he pauses when he reaches the woman.  He gives her a gentle look.  For a brief moment, the chilliness of the nobleman’s demeanor melts as she smiles demurely at him. 

The attendant falls behind the woman and the nobleman, pausing only to regard Rukia one final time. “We anxiously await your response,” the attendant states impassively.

The woman arches her head enough to glimpse Rukia.  “If you need anything, Rukia, do not hesitate to ask me.”  Her demeanor is warm and kind.

Rukia nods her head.  “Yes, Sister.”

A clicking noise sounds in Renji’s ears right before his brain goes into cognitive overload.  _Sister?_   Maybe Rukia is being polite?  Some of the students refer to their elders and mentors as “sisters” or “brothers.”  Maybe this woman was just an older student? 

That wouldn’t explain the nobleman and the retinue of servants, however. 

Nonplussed, Renji locks eyes with Rukia.  A tense look creases her visage, and she presses her lips together, likely suppressing the urge to say something.  Whom she wishes to address, however, he has no idea.

The woman gives a shallow bow of her head as she passes Renji.  The nobleman, however, does not spare Renji even the most cursory of glances. 

Renji considers this for a moment, but his thoughts are soon interrupted; the nobleman’s reiatsu crashes over him like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole.  Renji suddenly breaks out in a cold sweat.  His heart hammers an erratic beat in his chest—the type of beat that sends powerful ripples throughout his entire body.  Every alarm sounds in his head.

 _Such a powerful presence. He didn’t even glance at me_.  No, the nobleman hardly seemed to notice Renji at all.  Not even as he stops to wait for the woman to take her place at his side.

She glances back, however.  A small doleful expression lingers in her eyes and play across her lips before they leave. 

Consumed by confusion, Renji’s head drops down, and his eyes glue to the floorboards.  Collecting his thoughts take some effort.

“Renji?” Rukia’s voice cuts through his mental haze, and, when his head snaps up, he has a sense that he has missed some of her words.

“Oh, Rukia,” he murmurs in a low tone.  “The atmosphere was a bit tense there.  What happened?”

Darkness crosses her features.  Pain, regret, or sorrow colors her.  Either way, he can tell that she is in the middle of solving some complex riddle.

“That was my sister,” she says.  When she raises her head, he can see the disbelief clouding her eyes.  “I have a sister.”  It sounds like a question on her lips, but he is sure that she is merely repeating a fact.

He nods his head approvingly.  “She looks like your sister.”  It is true.  The likeness is unmistakable.  If they _weren’t related_ then he would find it _more eerie._  

“She wants to bring me into the Kuchiki family,” Rukia murmurs.  Her gaze trails to the floor, and a pink color creeps across her cheeks. She is flustered, Renji observes.  Not that he blames her.  The news _is_ overwhelming.

“Is she a Kuchiki?” Renji asks the obvious.

“She is Lady Kuchiki,” Rukia confirms.  “That was her husband, Lord Kuchiki,” she says as if “ _that”_ needs no explanation.  Although, Renji guesses that it doesn’t really.  The Kenseikan, the expensive silks, and the elaborate haori-himo all signified which male was the noble. 

“They say they will have me graduate immediately,” she continues, her eyes staring into the middle distance.  “Renji…I…This,” she stammers, desolately trapped in her own thoughts.  “Could it be true?”

She has mixed feelings, he notes.  Her apprehension is so palpable that _he_ feels anxious _on her behalf_.  He understands it all the same, however.  It seems too good to be true.  A family, a title, food, money, comfort—these were the things that they only _dreamed_ were possible.  To have all those things in a stroke of fate seemed _impossible_. 

He would have questioned himself, too. 

She would look a fool if she extended her hand to reach and failed.

She would look a fool if she refused.

She was going to beat herself up about it, he knew.  She was going to torture her poor mind and body on thoughts and ideas.  He could see the grief already weaving sad lines on her face.  Even if she _wanted_ to be a Kuchiki princess, she felt undeserving.  She felt like she was asking too much, like she wasn't worth it.

She isn’t asking too much, and she is worth it, Renji reasons.  

And so, with heavy heart and great pain, Renji feigns excitement.  He bends down, and he clasps her arms tightly.  She is warm and tense, and, for a brief moment, she stares up at him in wild panic.

He ignores her.  He has a part to play, and her pitiful glances will not deter him.  “Isn’t that great?” he asks, staring into her eyes.

“Ah?” she cries.

“You have a sister!  You have family!  And, once you are a Kuchiki, you become a noble!  That is awesome!  You’ll be surrounded by endless riches!  You can eat whatever you want if you’re a noble!” he says riotously, chortling at the ideas lighting up his imagination.  “Ah,” he begins again, but this time he is wistful, “I envy you! And you get to graduate immediately!”  How nice, he thinks.  What he would give to graduate in less than a year!  That surely has be some sort of record?  Right?  “Now, I am just dead jealous!”

Rukia grabs his arm, and he flinches.  His fingers, once tightly gripping her shoulder, jerk away from her as if she has caught flame.  Had he been grasping her that entire time?

“Really?” she asks.  A pensive look darkens her eyes.  She scrutinizes him.  She reads the lines of his brow the way scholars read philosophical tomes.  Nothing escapes her gaze, and he realizes that she has read his intentions well.  Too well. 

“Thank you,” she says, turning her cheek.

Before he can say something or stop her, she pulls away.  The distance between them grows with each of Rukia’s footfalls.  Until he can no longer hear the slapping sound her feet make against the wood.  Until he can no longer feel the gentle flicker of her reiatsu.

The distance—physical and emotional—stifles him.  It steals his breath and smothers the flame burning in his heart.  And, he wonders if he will ever see her again, or if she will ever regard him with the same fondness as he has grown to expect from her.

The possibility of her deprivation proves devastating, but he knows that it is the only way.  He will never stand between her and her chance at the good life.  He will never hold her back.  He loves her like family, and he knows those familial bonds hold strong even in absence, even in deprivation.


End file.
